


If I Don't Have a Home, Do I Still Have a Heart?

by Thruterryseyes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Sick Dean, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 05:01:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10892226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thruterryseyes/pseuds/Thruterryseyes
Summary: The trip to Sam episode one





	If I Don't Have a Home, Do I Still Have a Heart?

Dean knew he was crashing.

His hands were shaking, his head was splitting and nausea was flooding his mouth with saliva. An absolute guarantee he was two steps away from throwing his guts up all over the place. His skin felt like it was vibrating. The caffeine high he had been riding for two days was coming to an end. Two days of constant driving with nothing to keep him going but candy bars he grabbed from the places he stopped for gas, caffeine pills to keep him awake and the countless cups of black coffee had poured into himself had finally caught up with him. Not to mention the tension that was twisting his insides until it had become actual pain.

He squinted blearily into the darkness ahead, the Impala's headlights glaring on the surface of the road making his head pound even more. He wasn't exactly sure where he was but the sudden blast of his headlights against a reflective road sign suddenly shot adrenaline pumping through his exhausted body and the result was inevitable.

"Shit-" he gagged, forcing the car to the side of the road with a spastic jerk. He tumbled from the car and staggered a few feet into the grass before bracing his hand against the rough bark of a tree and vomiting desperately. His head felt like it was coming apart with each spasm of sickness that gripped him.When it was finally over he straightened awkwardly, one hand still clutching the tree, the other ground into his stomach.

"God…" he gasped hoarsely, his throat burning from acid. He cleared his throat and spit, mopping his watering eyes with a sleeve. He turned and stumbled back to the light spilling from the open car door, dropping to the ground beside it, leaning his head back against the seat. A car honked as it sped by, but he ignored it. He actually felt a little better, almost as if some kind of pressure valve had been released. His head still hurt but it was tolerable.

He reached back and rummaged on the seat for the bottle of water that had been lying there, finally locating it on the floorboard where it had been thrown by his sudden stop. His fingers still quivered slightly as he popped the cap and tipped a small amount into his mouth. He rinsed it around and spit again, trying to get the hot bitterness out of his mouth. He took a small swallow and felt some relief as it trickled coolly down his throat and settled in his stomach. Heat poured off of him, but he knew it was just from exertion and that it would pass. He took another small sip, then splashed some of the water on his face, drying it with his sleeve again. God, he thought, he really needed to wash this shirt, and he sure as hell needed a shower now if he hadn't before.

He pulled his knees up and rested his elbows on them, letting the water bottle dangle between his knees, tipping his head back again and closing his eyes. Events of the past few weeks played back through his tired mind, making him question again, what the hell he thought he was doing.

Not hearing from his father in a week after disappearing without so much as a note had pissed him off at first. Two weeks with no phone call, no response to his voice mails had him stressed out, three weeks of nothing and he was wound up so tight he was afraid another day would pass and he would screw himself into the ground from the tension. His father had never been gone this long without contacting him even if it was just give him coordinates for the next job and Dean knew something bad had happened.

His biggest problem was he didn't have a clue what to do. He had no idea where his father had gone or why. He had simply come home (rather the cheap motel room they were calling home that week) and found his father's truck and most of his personal possessions gone. Dean had ransacked the room for any information, some clue to explain his father just up and leaving without warning. All he had ended up with was his dad's journal, his father's single, most valuable possession. 

His first guilty thought was that he had done something to anger his father and the man had left as punishment. Dean couldn't imagine what it could have been, he rarely argued with his father, trusting in the older Winchester's judgment and willing to act upon it without question. It was what he had been trained to do. Increasingly desperate phone calls to Dad's contacts over the last three weeks had revealed nothing. No one Dean could find had seen or talked with John Winchester. His father had gone and left Dean in the one situation he couldn't bear. Fear for his father's well being was robbing him of sleep, he couldn't eat, could only twist his hands and try to figure out what was going on.

Then he had received the call. A damned crackling voice mail he could barely understand. It had sent fear through him as well as crushing relief that at least his father was alive at the point he sent the voice mail. He had worked with the recording to eliminate as much of the static as he could and had run it through a Gold Wave. It was when he played it back that he clearly heard what the crackling in the background had been.

Unable to sit still any longer he had made a decision that even though he still felt was right, had shaken him to the core, not knowing what the reaction would be, not sure if he was prepared for that reaction. He had tossed his few belongings into the Impala, filled it with gas and begun driving. It had been a long trip and he was wrung out. In his life he had faced things more frightening than most people even knew existed. Had fought, been injured and nearly died facing them, but nothing in his life had ever sent his heart lurching in dread like the road sign he was currently parked under.

It read, _Stanford 5 Miles_.

He sighed and tipped the water bottle back, draining it, forcing it down, hoping it would help dilute the remaining caffeine in his system. He waited just to make sure it wouldn't make a sudden reappearance and then pushed himself wearily to his feet. He needed to get some real food into his stomach, clean up a little and get his act together before he reached his destination. It wouldn't do to be seen with all of his seams fraying.

Dean turned his face up to the night sky, sighed and climbed behind the wheel, tossing the empty bottle into the back seat. He turned on the ignition and gripping the steering wheel, pulled the car back onto the road filling the night with the familiar throaty growl of the engine.

"Sammy…" he murmured to himself, "ready or not. here I come……"

 

END


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